#though i see this sentiment more and more as a joke

[alwayssassydreamer]

Song #3

Song Prompt Challenge

If you cried out for more If you reached out for me I would run into the storm Just to keep you here with me

Warnings: none

Characters: Shanks x GnReader

It started like it always did with Shanks: a laugh, a drink, and that irresistible smirk that made it impossible to stay mad at him for long.

He had an uncanny ability to turn the most serious moments into a joke, disarming you with his charm and leaving you wondering how you’d fallen for him so hard.

Tonight was no different.

The Red-Haired Pirates had docked in a small, lively port town, the kind that catered to sailors and adventurers. The tavern was bustling, music and laughter filling the air.

You had tried to stay at the edge of the chaos, nursing your drink and pretending you weren’t scanning the room for that telltale shock of red hair.

But, of course, Shanks found you first.

“Hey there,” he greeted, sliding into the seat across from you with a grin that could melt steel. “Fancy seeing you here. Or did you miss me too much to stay away?”

You rolled your eyes, trying to suppress the smile tugging at your lips.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Shanks. I just happen to like this tavern.”

“Sure you do,” he teased, leaning back in his chair with that easy confidence. “And I just happen to like this table. Funny how life works, huh?”

You shook your head, unable to stop the laugh that escaped.

“You’re impossible.”

“Yeah, but you like me anyway,” he said, winking.It was maddening how easily he got under your skin.

But that was Shanks—carefree and irreverent, yet somehow always knowing exactly what to say to keep you from walking away.

As the night wore on, the two of you fell into the familiar rhythm of banter and stolen glances. Shanks was the life of the tavern, telling exaggerated stories and coaxing laughter from even the grumpiest patrons. Yet, despite the crowd, his attention never strayed far from you.

At some point, the conversation turned quieter, more intimate. The rowdy atmosphere of the tavern seemed to fade into the background as Shanks leaned across the table, his gaze locking onto yours.

“You know,” he said softly, “I’d do anything for you.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden sincerity in his tone.

“Don’t start getting all sentimental on me now, Shanks,” you joked, though your voice wavered slightly.

“I’m serious,” he insisted, his smile softening. “If you cried out for more, if you reached out for me—I’d run into the storm just to keep you here with me.”

Your breath hitched at his words, the weight of them settling over you. Shanks wasn’t the type to make grand declarations, but when he did, you knew he meant every word.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he continued, his voice quieter now. “You’ve got this way of grounding me, of reminding me what’s really important. And I don’t want to lose that. I don’t want to lose you.”

For once, you didn’t have a clever retort. Instead, you reached across the table, your hand brushing against his.

“You’re not going to lose me, Shanks,” you said firmly. “But you’ve got to promise me something.”

“Anything,” he said without hesitation.

“Promise me you won’t get yourself killed trying to prove something,” you said, your voice tinged with both affection and exasperation.

He chuckled, his thumb brushing over your knuckles.

“Can’t make any promises there, sweetheart. But I’ll always come back to you. That much, I swear.”

You rolled your eyes, but a small smile crept onto your lips.

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet, here you are,” he said with a grin.Shanks stood, pulling you to your feet with him.

“Come on,” he said, his tone lighter now. “Let’s get some air. I need a break from all this noise, and I think you do too.”

As he led you out of the tavern and into the cool night, you couldn’t help but feel a sense of calm settle over you. With Shanks, life was unpredictable and chaotic, but it was also full of moments like this—moments where the world seemed to stand still, leaving just the two of you.

And as he wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you close, you realized you wouldn’t trade it for anything.

[demcnsinmymind]

His chin's lifted up just a bit, so his eyes can look up at the sky. Devoid of anything out here in the middle of nowhere. No clouds. No planes. No birds. Not even the sun anymore, or the stars. That sweetspot between night and day. It's empty and yet it's a sight, almost comforting in a way. Which is why it takes Lance so long just to make sense of that exact fact. Empty. Nothing. No angels. No god. Just that cold vastness, waiting beyond the atmosphere.

He laughs. Unsure if it's his doing or still Aza/thoth's, though he supposes that this isn't really important right now. The sentiment's there either way.

"I suppose I don't have the eyes to see them then" it makes him say with a toothy grin, said eyes stinging due to the lack of moisture because even after all this time, the fucking thing still hasn't learned to fucking blink every now and then. Or maybe it's just doing that on purpose. Like many of these things that it does, maybe even all of them.

Lance wonders if it's a joke. A stupid fucking wink wink because a being like it should be more than capable of seeing so much more than he possibly ever could. Maybe it can see them, but he can't. Then again, no. Angels don't fucking exist. That's ridiculous.

When Miriam talks about her miracles again, Aza/thoth focuses his eyes back on her. So fast and sudden that it's giving him a headache, makes him sick almost, the way it's eyeing her head to toe like a piece of meat. She's showing her hands and he still doesn't see anything at all, but this time, it seems to see something at last.

It shifts his body forward quickly, takes both her hands into his and rubs his thumbs against her palms, whistling, nodding, grinning again.

"Look. at. you." it chirps, doing that thing with his voice again that gives his own body goosebumps all over. It keeps feeling at her palms a bit longer, like a soothsayer reading the most marvelous and outrageous things within.

"Well. I say it's about time we make them speak then, hm?" it says and lets go of her hand at last, though it's still got its hooks in her, drives them in that much further.

"I'm sure they have so many things to say. About you. Hiding from them. But not from me, are you? Not really. Look. at. you. indeed. Right here. All alone. Away from them. So very far."

It lets that statement stand on its own for a little too long. Grinning, but with Lance grinding his teeth at the same time, more than displeased with the situation.

Stop messing with her head.

Laughing again. Soft, like a purr, and so very amused. At least until it's shoved away. Or retreating all on its own, along with its grin and his fingers all over her palms. Lance lets go of her hands and looks at her, meets her with the same anger as before, though it still isn't aimed at her at all. But at everyone and everything else. That cult and whatever the fuck it did to her, brainwashed her into. Aza/thoth and whatever the fuck it is doing with that in return, not at all helping.

"Don't listen to it. Or any of them. Angels don't exist, Miriam. They don't have anything to say to you. Or me. Or anyone. Because they're a stupid fucking tale fanatic creeps tell people to scare them into submission. Don't let them."

Miriam shrinks before his wrath. She takes a step back. Wide eyes watch as his face morphs into a mask of hateful disdain. A harsh laugh burst out of his throat, cold as ice and slicing through her flesh just as well. She feels its bite, a pair of jaws clamped around her throat. That’s how it feels, with his gaze burning into her, daring her soothsaying to come true. The switch-up confuses her. She cannot tell the differences between Lance and the entity that drives him, that drives everything. At least not yet. Gone is the beguiling, seductive tenderness. Now there is something rawer, something with less varnish. Bloodlust, perhaps. She’s seen that, too. She’s felt it before.

Miriam thinks she could count his teeth if she wanted.

If she expected some kind of response from him, it probably wasn’t this. He is turning this way and that, like she did before. It needs a special kind of insight to guess at the gossamer puppet strings that jerk them around, manipulated by a god much larger than anything she could grasp. She has no choice in this, and neither does Lance. There is some comfort in that thought. No one likes to be doomed all alone. She’d like some company on her walk to the gallows. And Lance, or whatever is smiling behind his face, with his face, offers to take her to the noose.

At the questions, she can only shrug. “They’re everywhere, if you got eyes to see them. When one comes close, I try to hide. Don’t know if that does anything. I doubt it, though. They’re— I used to talk to them. Sometimes they’d put one inside of me, so I could perform miracles.” She lifts her hands as if he might see the stigmata there. They’re just hands, of course. How could she explain to Lance that she once drew a cancer out of an old man and made a woman walk again? How to explain that she used to see Jacob’s ladder and all the angels on its rungs?

“They don’t speak. Not to me. Sometimes they do what I want. But they haven’t for a long time…”

[queenlucythevaliant]

I do think that Brits who are really enthusiastic about wanting King Arthur to return really just want Jesus to return and are using myth to cope.

[fictionadventurer]

Top 5 Arthur episodes?

D.W. Goes to Washington: It's a very close race between this one and #2, but I gave the edge to this one because almost every line here is classic. It's full of hilarious Imagine Spots and great D.W. zingers.

The Rat Who Came to Dinner: Another episode that's full of great jokes. The dynamic between Ratburn and Arthur's family is comedy gold.

The Contest: The pastiches of different animation styles alone puts this one in the top five, but it's also in service of some wonderfully absurd mini-stories with classic jokes. ("My brain was on cruise control" is the Arthur quote that gets the most use in daily life).

Buster Hits the Books: The pastiches of the different books are hilarious.

Arthur's Almost Boring Day: I had a very tough time choosing the fifth episode. I went with this one because the fighting between Arthur and D.W. reaches a hilarious fever pitch that goes beyond any other episode.

[warnerswilsons]

This isn’t a serious theory but wouldn’t it be wild if the doctor regenerated into a child, somehow ended up in the very, very far past near Gallifrey, and through timey wimey shenanigans, the timeless child arc was revealed to take place in the doctor’s future rather than the past, creating a whole necessary paradox?

Does it seem far-fetched? Yes. Does it also seem plausible? Honestly after last week’s episode, I think so and I honestly think it would be so hilarious if RTD or whoever else ends up as showrunner does this, and I will keep a link to this post safe somewhere for the off-chance that it does.

[incorrectdeceptionquotes]

holy sh¡t a Deception fan in the year of our lord 2023?? how does it feel being in a fandom with 4 people in it bestie

Do not cite the deep magic to me, child... I was there when it was written!

[trans-androgyne]

I’d just like to ask folks to have a little more sensitivity about the “Tampon Tim” stuff—the way Donald Trump and U.S. conservatives are making fun of the democratic vice presidential candidate for putting free tampons in boys’ bathrooms. My girlfriend broke the news to me as though I was supposed to laugh, and it wasn’t until she saw the look on my face that she realized how personal this was to me as someone who’s advocated for menstrual products in men’s restrooms at my school and lobbied for access in prisons in my state. This is about trans guys and I want people to remember that.

I remember seeing a Kaitlin Bennet video where she went around smugly asking people if they thought tampons should be in men’s restrooms, with the obvious intended answer being of course not. We’re a joke to them; being connected to menstruation and menstrual products is already considered embarrassing for women, but for men, it’s downright humiliating and disgusting. As people who need tampons, who can get pregnant, who have breasts, but claim to be men, we are considered a perversion of the sex-gender binary. We cannot exist, and they make that clear. When you leave trans men and mascs out of these conversations, such as by pivoting to jokes about fictional cis men, you are contributing to our erasure. Please just remember who is actually harmed by these sentiments, and listen to our perspectives on it. Thank you.

[princessbrunette]

In need fathers day with baby daddy rafe, pretty pretty please princess 💕

ᘏ ⑅ ᘏ   ഒ    zᶻ

you always felt nervous going to tannyhill. not that you felt unwelcome, everyone in his life made it clear that rafe’s baby was of utmost importance to them — so with that came the kind and supportive treatment toward you. however, you couldn’t help but feel like a burden. if rafe wanted to be around you and his kid 24/7, he would do so — hell, he’d get back with you. due to feeling like this, your palms were all sweaty by the time you’d reached the front door, card tucked under you and baby carrier weighing down your arm.

he looks surprised to see you when he opens the door. still in his shirt and slacks, it’s clear to you that rafe had buried himself in work today. it only then occurs to you that father’s day might be difficult for him, giving his circumstances at all. you inwardly wince.

“uh, hey.” he eyes you, itching his cheek and peering into the baby carrier.

you clear your throat, bashfully holding out the card. he takes it in silence and you place the carrier down, picking up your sleepy baby and holding her to your chest. “happy father’s day, daddy.” you smile, voice soft as to not disturb your child too much. he softens a little, blinking.

“that today?” he breathes and you stiffen a little. surely he knew?

“uh, yeah. we got you a card, wanted to let you spend some time with her today if you’re not too busy.”

“if i’m not too— listen i’m never too busy to see my kid okay? or you. i’m— i’m never too busy to… see my family… and stuff.” it’s awkward, the sentiment too soft for his liking and he looks down, staring at the sweet, milk-plumped angel in your arms. “let me…” he reaches out and takes her, her fat little fists immediately stretching for him and curling into the material of his shirt making your heart swell. he was always oddly a natural at this, handling her so well. it always filled you with a strange kind of sadness, one that regressed you slightly to something more scolded and childlike because your own father hadn’t offered you that same generosity. yet, you were thrilled your baby would receive that love even if you weren’t together with her father.

“come in, please.” he stands aside, holding the door for you before picking up the carrier in his other hand— effortlessly walking it with the baby to the living room. “you walked here?” he converses, setting the carrier down and placing the baby back inside, crouching down to stroke her tummy with the side of his finger.

“took the bus. no way im walking with that heavy thing.” you chuckle quietly and he swivels his head to glance at you.

“should’ve told me you were coming i would have got you. y’know i really don’t like you getting on the bus with her, it’s not safe alright, there’s all kinds of lunatics out there.”

“we survived.” you shrug, and there’s a short silence before he stands up, reaching for the card and opening it up. you fiddle with the hem of your dress awkwardly. you never quite knew what to do around rafe these days.

you watch as he reads the contents. ‘to daddy, thanks for being the best and always looking after me. can’t wait to be able to tell you myself how much i love you.’ you sign it off as your daughter, but his eyes linger over it, your sweet handwriting scrawled around the brightly coloured paper — almost for a moment like you were saying it yourself.

“and before you ask, yes she said all of that herself.” you joke to ease the tension and he snaps out of it, looking up at you with a chuckle.

“our little wordsmith, huh?” he smirks, wandering over to the mantelpiece and displaying the card. it filled you with some kind of pride, though it wasn’t about you. “look uh…” he strokes his jaw, glancing over at the baby. “let me take you both out for dinner, yeah? my treat.”

“your treat? rafe its father’s day, we’re supposed to be treating you—”

“i know, alright but… i’m supposed to be looking after you, right? looking… looking after you both.” he corrects himself, walking closer to you until he was basically looming over you, eyes wide. “and— and i know this is a hard day for you too, alright— shit, it’s a hard day for me. gotta bond as a family at some point, you know that right?”

you nod, feeling a weight off your shoulders a little at the way the tension fizzles out.

“you sure? i don’t wanna take up your time—”

your incessant apologising makes his eyes flutter in irritation and he takes your cheeks in his hands, forcing you to look at him as he ducks his neck down to be more at your level.

“you’re not… yeah? you’re not. so quit.”

you blink all dumb, not realising how badly you missed his hands on you even if it was just as an innocent gesture and you nod, not trusting your voice. you try not to overthink the way he leaves his hands there for a moment as he glances over at your baby, thumb absentmindedly stroking your cheekbone for a second before pulling away and patting his pockets. “has she slept?”

your brain malfunctions so it takes you a second, but soon you choke out a “y—yeah. had her afternoon nap she’s just still waking up.”

“good. i know somewhere quiet, got a host there who owes me a favour.” he strides to the carrier and lifts it before turning back towards you, blinking at you obviously. “well are you coming or— or what?”

“yeah. yes. i’m coming.”

ᘏ ⑅ ᘏ   ഒ    zᶻ

[reshinless]

the jacket around kinich's waist- he only puts it on for very special occasions. which is when you get cold at night while you travel together.

when he sees you shudder from the cold of the night while he walks right behind you, best bet he's already taking it off to put it around your shoulders.

"huh- oh kin you don't have to it's fine."

"take it. i saw you shudder."

"it's fine, though you don't-"

"take. it. 'kay?"

"..okay."

he wants you to stay warm, the weather wasn't that bad for him. and of course he expects you to do the same when the time comes. he'd never do something when there's no benefit (unless it's you, so all jokes whenever he asks for something in return.)

the way you submit the favor in return, you let him lay on your chest. the simple gesture of cuddling means more than millions of mora could ever amount to.

hearing the pulse of your heart. your breathing pattern, wherein he slowly started to match it. holding your hand throughout it all because he loves the feeling that he knows you're close by.

the softness of your chest reminded him of the days where he had no worries, which is probably more recently. he hasn't known the feeling of peace for so long, your arms are the most familiar sentiment.

he knows he had to go at the brink of dawn, but.. just a few more minutes please..

can you tell mid-writing i realized its a jump suit thing and not a jacket? (I'll post kinktober like probably 9pm tmr instead, I'm not finished plus I prefer writing drabbles like these more rn sob)

[crescenthistory]

Where Padfoot Lays His Head

Summary: Inspired by @thewriterghost's reblog of my last animagus!reader fic, this is just a sweet drabble of Whiskers comforting Padfoot:,)

Words: 1.7k

Warnings: not proofread, fem!reader, your marauders/animagus name is whiskers, walburga black, black family dynamics and trauma, vaguely implied abuse, sirius spiraling into self-loathing, platonic physical affection, romantic!regulus x reader but platonic!sirius x reader is the main focus, background platonic!moonwater

Note: this is based on the same reader from Feline Touches, Sweet Like Honey and Padfoot vs. Whiskers, sirius' beloved almost-sister-in-law that he has frequent (loving) sibling squabbles with

Sirius pretended he didn’t feel the humiliation burning through his veins from his friends’ worrying looks.

Stop looking at me, stop caring so sodding much.

His internal begging was all for naught; this was apparently what he signed up for when he strolled into the train compartment that housed the largest smile Hogwarts had ever seen and his pack of make-shift slightly-fucked-up-but-lovable friends.

Most days, Sirius was grateful to the bone for the family he had been able to assemble at Hogwarts, stretching from his boyfriend to his boyfriend’s childhood best friend to his biological brother and the boys that became his brothers. However, on days that Walburga Black, the hag to end all hags, sends him a Howler berating him for leaving home over the summer, few sentiments besides anger, self-loathing and isolation remained in the young boy’s body.

When he eventually stops reeling and wallowing, all this attention would make him feel warm once more, especially when he sees they didn’t stop showering him in it even as he retreated perhaps a bit rudely from it. Right now, though, it just kept the wound open and Sirius was sure the infection would kill him this time around.

He was sure of that every time.

It became evident quickly that he would not be able to get away from his friends. James was practically glued to his side from the moment he left the Great Hall after Walburga ruined everyone’s lunch. His brown eyes were so wide beneath his glasses and Sirius was sure he could almost see tears in them as he swung his arm around Sirius’ shoulders and kept telling jokes like his life depended on it. Remus was not much better. He had learned by now not to soften his touches when Sirius was in these moods – on the contrary, harsh, direct touches helped ground him – but his hands rarely left his being, as if he would fall apart without him. Even Lily tuned down her playful banter with him, swapping it for concerned questions and checking in on him throughout the day. Sirius loved them all, but he hated it.

Even Regulus showed him more compassion than normal, though he didn’t say much. His entire being seemed to radiate I get you, I understand more than anyone, because frankly he did. Even as hearing Walburga’s voice must have rattled Regulus too, he didn’t show it, instead holding space for Sirius, carrying what was supposed to be his burden.

Humiliating. 

All of which to say, Sirius did what Sirius does best; he ran from them all, in the one form none of them would be able to hold a conversation with him in.

Padfoot had turned out to be a blessing that way. Sirius picked up on it from you, who only ever was in your animagus form when you felt particularly well or horrifically poorly. Difficult to ask how a dog is feeling, yeah? 

He laid in front of the common room fireplace, stretched out in a position that showed he was ready to pounce should anyone try to pet him. Around him, his friends were cuddled up on the sofas and armchairs, chattering lowly amongst themselves and playing the occasional game of wizarding chess. Padfoot had his head placed on his front paws as his gaze flickered all over the room, unable to settle. His nerves always seemed to transform with him, manifesting as the most anxious dog Gryffindor had seen.

Their stares were still on him, penetrating and with downturned frowns over their faces. Stop it, stop it, stop it. He couldn’t string too long sentences together in his dog brain – part of its fantastic appeal right now – but that sentiment remained steadfast.

You were sat in Regulus’ lap opposite the fireplace, murmuring something in his ear as you both intermittently looked at Padfoot. Your hands were playing with his hair, lips almost grazing his skin as you talked, even pressing the occasional kiss to his cheek, his jaw, his ear. Love. Padfoot loved love and he loved his little brother getting to experience it so wholly, even as he laid here, destroying the moment with the same misery that hunted any children raised by the Black family. He felt as if he was sucking the joy out of the room with his wallowing, yet he couldn’t stop himself.

Padfoot couldn’t help the low whine that escaped him at the darkness swirling around inside him. Upon fearing having to meet the gazes of anyone who caught the noise and see the goddamn sympathy and pity in them, he brought his paws up to cover his eyes, pathetically hiding within himself.

Bad, bad, bad, bad, bad.

In his internal chanting, he didn’t notice when the chatter died down a bit, nor did he see the glances exchanged. He felt the footsteps reverberating through the floorboards, suggesting somebody was walking away, but he didn’t register its true implications. Leave, was all he could think. Good, leave. Go.

What he did notice to its fullest extent was when a few moments later, soft fur collided with his own as something was rubbing against him.

A bit too quickly, almost too violently, Padfoot’s head snapped up from beneath his paws to see what this intrusion was – only to come face to face with a white-and-grey cat, blinking slowly at him. His mouth fell slightly open, and he thought a complaining bark may be on its way out, but then you – Whiskers – butted your head against the side of his neck, caressing him with your feline body.

The adventures of Whiskers and Padfoot were a running joke, especially one Remus and Regulus loved to team up to tell. Whether it was chasing each other around, hunting rats – preferably Wormtail, but any would do – and mice or playing with the house elves, you two loved to conduct mischief together in the one form you could never be properly caught in. There had been the occasion where you cuddle or pet one another, but it was rare and usually unspoken, attachment growing deeper and softer without either properly addressing it. 

So, this was not necessarily out of left field, but it surprised him nonetheless. He couldn’t say it wasn’t quite welcome, though.

You had started purring as you walked up and down his body where he was laid in front of the fire, soaking up the warmth he was bathed in and oddly calming the vibrating nerves within his own body. Whenever you reached his head, you bumped your snout against his, rubbing the space between your ears all over his face.

Cats are weird, Padfoot thought. Like it.

Mere minutes ago Sirius had been surveying his friends and his effect on them intently, digging himself deeper into his self-inflicted hole. Now, his attention was captured by the much smaller animal beside him, and he didn’t see how most conversation had stopped to witness the interaction. Lily and James looked at them in almost shocked awe, both having been snapped at and ran away from when they attempted to pet Padfoot themselves. Regulus and Remus, however, sat there with soft, knowing smiles – seeing the girl they loved most go for it with no fear and comforting their favourite dog. Remus would deny it to anyone who asked, but there were tears in his eyes.

The next time Whiskers came up beside his face, you stayed there, leaning yours against his. You laid your body down over the paws Padfoot had previously rested his own head on and made yourself comfortable in a position no one but a cat could possibly conjure up. From there, you began cleaning his fur like you were his personally-assigned cat mother, licking the strands in their correct direction. When his face was too far away, you lightly brought your paw up to his snout to bring him further towards you.

Despite being placed in front of a fire, warmth didn’t truly spread through Sirius before now. When he brought his head down, he laid it on top of you and let it rest there across your midsection, careful not to hurt you, as your upper body curled around his head. You continued cleaning up his fur as you purred loudly, easing the tension from Padfoot’s poor body.

A cuddle only animals could come up with, an embrace Sirius would deny anyone today, yet like this, it just worked.

When his eyes became heavy, Sirius let them fall. You continued your ministrations without hesitation, carefully and slowly tending to Sirius face, only stopping occasionally to nuzzle your forehead further into his fur and purr even louder. 

He didn’t quite fall asleep, he rarely did as Padfoot, too alert and awake in this form, but he let himself fall into a place of tranquillity. Walburga’s harsh words seemed almost funny in their anger now, and Sirius’ own spiral was becoming a thing of the past. 

Would he still be red-cheeked tomorrow and avoid his friends’ eyes for the first half of the day? Perhaps, but they would reel him into their arms and hearts regardless. Would he sputter and fall back into his evil cycle of thoughts if anyone brought this specific moment up? Without a doubt, but that’s why they would not, at least not before he settled. 

Padfoot was suddenly safe in the Gryffindor common room. He was safe with this warm weight over his paws and beneath his head, he was safe with love being quite literally carded into every strand of fur on his body. He was safe with the hearth behind him and his pack in front of him, quiet voices further lolling him further into a state of peace.

Padfoot was safe – maybe even loved.

Across the room, Remus and Regulus had gravitated further towards one another, as theirs were the only eyes who never left the scene of cat-dog-solidarity displayed before them. 

Regulus bumped into Remus’ arm with his elbow and whispered, “He doesn’t like cats, he says?” with a knowing smirk.

The other boy huffed a laugh at that, lips remaining softly upturned. “I believe he has an exception or two to that rule.”

[saioratral]

salvatore - itoshi sae being a romantic genius cause i said so warning: none + aged up! itoshi sae note: i still cant believe the fishi, the legend might i add, asked ME.. ME for a collab write. am i dreaming? i completely went off topic btw cause that song made me confused

link to goatshi's ver (you better read it) also forgot to tag the goat @fishii-writes

expensive cologne floated through the entire penthouse, filling the air with its rich scent after a perfume bottle shattered. the owner shrugs, it’s like pocket change for him, you laugh at his nonchalant attitude, settling to stand in the balcony until the smell is gone 

the view of the spanish coastline looked almost like a sight straight out of a movie, making the penthouse felt like a castle perched on a hill, its high walls shielding you from the outside world and prying eyes. a velvet sofa rests outside to accompany you both, sae sitting and staring at you 

“cariño”, sae's deep voice brought you back to the present, to turn around and face him. “like the view?”

“i love it”, you lean on the balcony railing, eyes drifting between the view and him

his  teal eyes softened slightly, a faint smile tugging at his lips, but it seemed tinged with sadness. his gaze lingered on you, as though memorizing the moment, taking the time to photograph your beauty as if you were leaving soon 

“people know how to live and forget," sae sighed, setting his glass down with a soft clink. "there are only two options" 

you arched a brow, intrigued. “and what are the two options?”

“you either forget, or you get swallowed by it," he said, voice dropping a little. "it’s everything—the past, the present, and the future” 

“.. i dont understand anything but you look handsome under the moonlight”

your laughter broke the tension, and sae raised an eyebrow, surprised by your light-hearted comment. here he was, getting sentimental, and you were busy admiring him? he watched you walk closer, your hands brushing over the soft fabric of his silk shirt. he let you feel it before you both sat down together

“i know,” you continued, resting your head on his shoulder, “everyone wants something from you. but i want you to be you. not the ‘japan golden boy,’ just… be you”

sae relaxed at your words, letting down his guard. your hand found his, fingers lacing together, and the ocean waves becoming a little lullaby for you both 

“me gusta cómo te ves esta noche”, he murmured, searching for your gaze

“oooo, spanish,” you teased, tilting your head to look up at him

“eres... como un sueño”, he said, his voice softening as he saw your bright smile 

the night continued with the both of you laughing over silly jokes and guessing what sae was speaking in spanish. you got up, changing the song to something more slow before pulling him up with you 

“what are we doing?”, sae asks, curiously watching you 

“you’ll see” 

you took his hands in yours, and as the song played, the two of you began to slow dance. the ocean seemed to quiet down, as if wanting you both to take the spotlight and the moon’s light giving the perfect photo moment

“lana del rey?” sae asked, recognizing the artist of the song

“the one and only,” you replied, resting your hand gently on his neck

at that moment, the world seemed to pause. sae leaned closer, his warm breath fanning your already flushed face. the smell of his cologne making you enter a new world, his words falling out like music, as if you understood 

“sometimes it’s better to not know all the words”, sae said softly, his eyes locked on yours 

“alright, prodigy”, you giggled. “you still sound hot” 

his gaze flickered to your lips before he leaned in even closer. his lips ghosting yours, teasing you to take the bait. the bait he had set up all along afterall, everything goes with his plan, no matter what 

“mi vida… may i?” 

you nod, feeling his lips finally meet yours, the faint taste of wine still lingering on them. the kiss begins softly, slow and teasing, just as before. sae liked taking his time, he wanted to build up the moment with you but even he could lose his patience once in a while 

the pent up desire took the best of him. with a quiet murmur, he pulled back from the kiss, his breath warm against your skin before gently guiding you toward the sofa. you follow the pull of his touch, your back sinking into the softness of the velvet cushions

he hovers above you, his finger moving to unbutton his shirt a little bit before leaning down. his lips finds your neck, kissing you slow and deliberately, the heat radiating from his touches gave you goosebumps 

“you’ll get the rest later”, he mumbles before crashing his lips back to yours  

© saioratral 2024-25 -- do not repost, translate, alter, etc on any platform without permission. Any characters used in my work do not belong to me, they are created by their original creator. all images used are from pinterest

[xinganhao]

🪶 dead poets society!hhu x reader.

i heard the hip-hop unit asked you to join the dead poet's society! ✶ part of my svt university milestone event

⤿ hip-hop unit as members of a poetry society, choose-your-own romance (����), poetry references. more content + poll for special chapter under the cut. ♡⸝⸝ prompt from @taeraegyat! + a special shoutout to @biniaiahs, who helped me come up with the plot. that's #oomf <3

SEUNGCHEOL'S WRITE-UP.

i think i still see love as something that's built from the ground up. something you work on, something that can be encompassing and grand. even then, i'd be a fool to think it won't inevitably end. all good things do. (much like this club, though that's a sentiment for another essay.) the fact that it will all eventually crumble doesn't make it any less worth pursuing. and so we build our empires, brick by brick, in hopes that we can have everything our heart desires. that same night when i told you about what i want, i think i could have been clearer. i want everything, yes. but more than that, i want you.

WONWOO'S WRITE-UP.

we need people to live. that seems like a simple, cardinal truth— an echo of 'no man's an island'. it's not always easy to accept, though. i think that's how i've spent most of my days. don't get me wrong. being alone ≠ being lonely. i've always been fine with myself, fine by myself. but love is like a cat curled up in a patch of sunlight. oh-so comfortable in taking its time, coming and going whenever it pleases. much like you. you're a bit unfair, because you've made me less lonely. because now, i don't want to be alone when i can be with you.

MINGYU'S WRITE-UP.

i have a page bookmarked on my google chrome. 'funny, random & weird holidays'. i told you once before that i'm always looking to celebrate something, because that's just the point of living! to find small but certain happiness in our day to day! otherwise, life gets tedious and tiring. so can i be blamed for wanting to mark 'international joke day'? (july 1, by the way.) i think it's a bit of a coping mechanism, really. maybe on 'say something nice day' or 'richter scale day', you'll finally look my way. maybe if it weren't just a random thursday, you'd finally feel what i've always felt for you.

VERNON'S WRITE-UP.

this isn't the best version of me yet. i know that for a fact. there's a lot more that i can still be and i'm sure the same stands for you. on my end: i can probably be funnier, cooler. i could be more honest, too. the closest i've come to the truth is when i slipped and i said i needed to see you. not want; need. i like to believe that in a couple of years, i'll be the type of guy who can sweep you off your feet. i don't expect you to wait. it's just a quiet, blind hope— that i may one day be deserving, if i ever dared to ask.

[always-just-red]

Please make a story that zayne is very clingy, sweet , romantic

For Mc

Pretty please

Make it long

Please

Please

Need a food 🥺

Food is served!! (One of these days you guys are gonna see an 'only accepting requests for Rafayel now' post and it'll be Raf hijacking my computer because WHY WAS I CATCHING FEELINGS FOR ZAYNE WHILE WRITING THIS??)

Doctor's Orders

Zayne x Reader ❄

Summary: Zayne has suggested you skip work today, which isn't suspicious at all...

Genre: Fluff (with a *pinch* of angst)

Warnings/Additional tags: gn!reader, established relationship, some kisses, some mentions of death (just a real mixed bag, you know?)

| Word count: 2k | Masterlist | Opt-in to my taglist here!

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Love and Deepspace. All work is my own, so please don't repost or plagiarise!

“Do you really have to go?”

Zayne was a lot of things: caring, even doting, but never normally this… clingy.

You pretend not to hear the question, feeling the weight of his eyes on your back as you get ready to leave. You will answer it— you’re not ignoring him�� but you have so much to do, and you’ve answered it three times already. Yes, Zayne. It’s work. You finish lacing your boots. And no, Zayne, I can’t get out of it.

And since when was he an advocate for skipping a shift, anyway? Like blood from a stone, he’d calmly pleaded with you to come up with some sort of excuse and you’d stared back, eyes wide, because you didn’t know stones could bleed.

An excuse? You’d repeated in disbelief.

Yes. You could… tell them you’re sick? I could write you a note.

You’d thought it a joke until he drew out a pen and started scrawling something on the nearest scrap of paper. He’d pushed it into your hands, his gaze earnest, as though he were trusting a co-conspirator. Here, he’d said matter-of-factly, you can give it to your captain tomorrow.

The writing was barely legible.

It’s still crinkling in your pocket now: your little ‘get-out-of-your-Sunday-shift-free’ card, courtesy of Doctor Zayne, and yes, you are going to hold onto it, but it’s not for Jenna. It’s for your apartment wall, where you’ll be mounting it in a golden frame, because absolutely no-one is going to believe you when you tell this story.

You collect your guns from a nearby drawer, checking the sights and the safety on each before holstering them at your sides. “The sooner I leave, the sooner I’ll get back,” you shrug.

A nice sentiment— not entirely true. “Or you could stay.” Zayne is looking at your weapons, not you.

He’s sat at the kitchen table, watching you over an untouched breakfast. Yours also sits around him: plates upon plates of every food you could imagine, warm and cold, savoury and sweet. You’d suffered a brief heart attack when you’d first laid eyes on it, presuming you’d forgotten some occasion or another.

There’s even a vase of fresh flowers, flourishing at the centre of it all.

It’s one of the most romantic things you’ve ever seen, but you’re starting to think that’s the point. Like a hand on your heart, squeezing; it’s urging you to sit back down, to relax, to surrender and let him take care of you. Are you the worst person in the world? It feels like you are.

Ready to take on anything but more of his gaze, you return to the table, fully-armed, and pluck a strawberry from the edge of a plate. You pop it into your mouth, savouring its sweetness as you stroll behind Zayne’s chair. “Try not to worry,” you mumble, resting your hand on his shoulder while you lean in to kiss his cheek. “Ok?”

“Ok.”

You go to pull away, but his hand lands on your hand, anchoring you to him. His fingers wrap around your wrist, lifting, guiding your fingers in front of his mouth so he can press a few, brisk kisses to each. Your heart is in a vice again— tightening with every brush of his lips. You can’t take it. You can’t.

He knows, and he’s turning in the chair, slipping his free hand around your waist and tugging until you’re crushed up against him. “Stay. Please?” his voice entreats. You can barely hear it from where his face is nestled into you.

You have to remind yourself to breathe, and you sigh as your hands move to cradle his head and run your fingers through his hair. You want to enjoy this. Why can’t you enjoy this?

His breath is fanning against you and all you can think about is the fact that he’s making you late.

…

You’re marching to headquarters twice as quickly as usual, and you’ve crashed into three people already. Every time there’s been an impulse to scream “get out of the way!” but you’re wearing your uniform, so you have to apologise, smile sweetly, and pretend you’re not one incident away from turning in your badge and leaving them all to fend for themselves.

Someone steps out in front of you and you have to swerve to miss them, almost dropping your phone in the process. It had just started ringing, and the noise persists as you fumble with it.

“Hello?” you answer, putting it to one ear as you plug the other with a finger.

“Hi!” It’s Greyson, finally, and he’s surprisingly chipper for someone you know is just coming off of his graveyard shift. “I saw your texts. Is everything ok?”

“Yeah! Thanks for calling. It’s just…”  Everything’s too noisy for you to concentrate, and you’re still essentially running an obstacle course. You peel away from the crowd, ducking into the quiet of an alley. “I’m a little worried about Zayne. He’s been acting weird all weekend, ever since—”

“Friday?”

“Yeah.” That couldn’t mean anything good. Your brow furrows. “Did something happen?” 

A drawn-out sigh makes it through the phone, and you know Greyson well enough to know he’s pinching the bridge of his nose, wondering just how much he should tell you. “We had a patient transferred to us on Friday,” he caves, “a young woman— a hunter, injured— she was… not in a good way. Recovery odds next to zero, but Zayne? You know Zayne. He had to try.”

You nod, even though Greyson can’t see it. There’s dread in the pit of your stomach; you can tell where this is going.

“She didn’t make it,” he states with the rehearsed evenness of someone who’s spoken the words too many times before. There’s another sigh, then he hastens to add: “Zayne was incredible, though— he did everything he could, really. He was her best chance, he just… wasn’t enough. You can’t save everyone, you know?” He chuckles awkwardly. “Yeah, you know.”

And you do: you’re just as haunted by that truth and all of its ghosts. “Yeah,” you speak at last, seeing their faces. Your throat hurts. “Thanks, Greyson. Really.”

“That’s ok,” he yawns. “If Zayne asks, you didn’t hear it from me.”

“You think he’s gonna believe that?”

“No.” He’s smiling, now— you can tell. “But it’s worth a try! You take care of yourself, ok?”

“You too. Thanks again.”

“Any time.”

…

You’ve only been gone for half an hour, but Zayne is fast asleep. Though you’d practically burst through the front door, his head is still lowered— dipping over an open medical journal— and his dark hair has fallen over his eyes. You can’t help but smile. This wasn’t the nervous, pacing-the-apartment man you’d expected to find, but it eases the guilt in your chest for the first time all morning.

You sling your bag from your shoulder and set it gently down on the floor, all the while easing the door closed behind you. You unfasten your holsters. Shrug yourself free of all their straps. You don’t make a sound; you’re being very careful.

Slowly, you make your way over to where Zayne’s lying on the sofa. You lower yourself to his level, reaching to pry his book from his fingers. His glasses are next: you ease them from his face like you’re handling a volatile protocore. Your breath is baited. Your hands almost shake, but you’re an expert at this sort of extraction: you’ve done it a hundred times before.

With your mission accomplished, you allow yourself one small reward. You want to see his face— all of his face— so you card your fingers through his fallen hair, smoothing it back into place. He looks like a dream: the kind you’re glad to carry through daylight, long after you wake. The kind you write down for fear of forgetting a single detail.

You want this, this, this. Every morning. For the rest of your life.

And maybe even the next life. Is that possible?

(You hope it’s possible.)

Standing softly, you smile again— a smile between you and the universe, the gods, and the night sky, in all its infinity. There are things you cannot know and even more things you cannot have, but you are more than content with your consolation prize. This:

One minute of peace, for you and your doctor.

You have a funny feeling this is more than you were ever meant to have.

When your minute is through, you watch as Zayne’s face changes, and he is no longer at peace. He frowns, his whole body suddenly tense. There’s a murmur of… pain? It sounds like pain— he winces like it’s pain. He doesn’t tell you where he goes, but you wish you could hold his hand and make a breakfast big enough to keep him from going there.

“Zayne,” you whisper, resting a warm palm on his cheek. A little louder: “Zayne.”

He stirs in his sleep as your voice brings him back to reality. He’s yours— yours— and the inevitable can have him later. Sure enough, his eyes flutter open, lost for a moment, but then? Home. Safe. With you.

“Hey,” you grin.

He squints against the daylight. “Hmm? Oh. What are you doing back so soon?”

You scoff. “Some doctor you are! I’m at death’s door— can’t you tell?” Your hand leaves his cheek, indicating your not-pallid skin, not-flushed cheeks, and not-sunken eyes with a wave. Then you find his hand, pressing his fingers to your forehead.

There’s a second of hesitation. “Ah,” he says warily, “yes, you’re… burning up.”

“Right?!” 

Despite the severity of your condition, you find the strength to clamber on top of him. It’s anything but graceful, and he groans as you shift and fidget, taking your time getting comfortable. Eventually you settle, your head resting against his chest and his arms holding you close. You’re not tired, but you close your eyes, and this is so much better than patrolling for Wanderers.

He draws you higher so his chin can rest on the top of your head. “Greyson told you, didn’t he?” he ventures aloud, because he’s awake, now, so he’s connecting dots.

“Yeah,” you nod against him. “But if he asks, I said it was Yvonne, ok?”

There’s a hum of agreement, then he’s silent. Thinking again. “I’m sorry,” he finally speaks.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for. It’s sweet that you worry. You don’t need to—”

“No,” he stops you. “I care about you a lot, and I’ll never apologise for that. What I am sorry for, however, is that a romantic gesture from me is so unusual that you feel you have to call my colleagues. I know I’m not always outwardly affectionate, but—”

“No.” It’s your turn now, and you twist, angling yourself so you can look up into his eyes. “You always make me feel loved, Zayne. Everything you do, everything you say… it’s for me, and no-one has ever cared about me like that. No-one has ever showed me they care like that.”

“Then why—”

“Because you get it, Zayne— the importance of what I do, because it’s what you do, even if it’s different. We’re both saving the world a little, right?”

“Right.”

You draw out his doctor’s note and shimmy it in front of his eyes. “So what the hell is this?”

He admits guilt with a chuckle, his hand moving to catch the evidence, but you’re one step ahead, stashing it back into the sanctity of your pocket. He issues a short hmph, defeated.

“Come on,” you prompt, escaping his arms. “Let’s not let all that food go to waste. You kept it, yeah? I’ve been dreaming about those chocolate-chip pancakes since I left.”

Zayne had been helping you up, but he slumps back as you finish your sentence. “Oh.”

“Oh?”

“Oh,” he confirms with the trademark nod of a doctor, and it can only mean one thing:

You’re about to receive some very, very bad news.

[darlingdaisyfarm]

Their reaction to tears (Stan & Ford)

Stan

Perhaps from the outside it seems that Stan is not a very sentimental guy. It’s wrong. Yeah, hugs make him feel nervous if they go on too long, and feelings? He’s spent most of his life avoiding those altogether. So when Stan sees you crying, his first reaction is to freeze. He’s really lost. And it’s you, so he can’t just brush it off or pretend it’ll go away. Not when you’re standing there, your shoulders shaking like that.

“Aw, kid. . .” he finally steps closer, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly feeling out of place. His eyes flicker over you, taking in your trembling hands, the hiccuping breaths.

He doesn't ask you for an explanation, he doesn't force you to pour out your soul. He knows that sometimes silence is better than any conversation, but the way he rubs slow circles into your back, the way his chin rests atop your head, you know he’s there. It's not very graceful embrace. It’s more like you’re getting wrapped up in a bear hug that’s meant to keep the rest of the world out. He squeezes you tight, maybe a little too tight, because that’s all he knows how to do. Hold on and hope it helps.

“Shh, it’s alright. I gotcha,” he mutters into your hair, though he sure as hell doesn’t know how to handle your tears, but he’s trying. “Whoever made you feel like this? I’ll knock ‘em into next Tuesday, swear to god.”

You let out a half-laugh, half-sob at that, and he pulls back just enough to glance down at you, raising an eyebrow like he’s confused by the sound. “What? You think I’m joking? I’ll even wear brass knuckles for the occasion.” his thumb brushes away a stray tear. He frowns, like maybe he’s mad at himself for not fixing it faster, for not knowing what to say to make it all go away. “C’mon, sweetie,” now his voice a little softer, “You’re tougher than this. You’ve got me. Ain’t nobody messes with you when I’m around, okay?”

“It’s. . . It’s so stupid, Stan, i don’t even know-“ you try to explain, sobbing and bursting into tears.

“Tell me, who do I gotta rough up for this? ’Cause I can call in some favors. I know a guy who knows a guy.”

You sniffle, laugh breaking through and he grins at that, just a little. He hates seeing you cry, but getting you to smile, even if it’s weak, that’s the goal.

“There we go,” he says, all smug and proud. “See? That’s better. You keep cryin’ like that and I’m gonna have to start cryin’, and trust me, you don’t wanna see that. I’m an ugly crier.”

Stan stares at you a bit longer than usual before continuing. “You know, tears aren’t your best look,” he says after a moment, his thumb brushes your cheek, wiping your tears in a way that’s more careful, gentle, than you’d expect. “You’ve got a real pretty face, baby, but it’s kinda hard to see it through all this mess.”

You laugh, even if just a little, because that’s. . . That’s just Stan. He’ll drag you out of your darkest moments, even if he has to fight the whole damn world to do it.

Ford

Ford is a man of deep thought, logic and intellect. But when he sees you break down in front of him, crying softly, trembling and sobbing, it shakes something in him that’s far beyond logic. His heart stumbles. The man who’s faced interdimensional monsters, who’s braved the edges of space and time, suddenly feels lost when he sees you like this.

At first, he doesn’t move. He’s watching you, brow furrowed, processing. Ford wants to understand, to fix, but emotions aren’t equations and you are something far more complex than anything described in his journals.

“Hey. . . hey,” he whispers, finally reaching out, his voice soft, calm, quiet. He’s cautious, careful, like he’s afraid of overwhelming you. His hand hovers for a moment before settling lightly on your arm. “What’s wrong? what happened?” Ford asks because he needs to know. He needs to dissect the situation, to piece together what’s hurting you so he can find a solution. But there’s more to it than just answers for him.

When you can’t quite form words, when your tears keep spilling, he gently pulls you closer, his hand resting on your back as he guides you to sit with him. His touch is gentle as he slowly, soothingly runs his thumb over your shoulder.

“You don’t have to talk yet,” he speaks, his breath brushing against your temple. “I’m here.” and those words, so simple, carry so much weight coming from him. Because Ford isn’t a man who offers empty promises. If he says he’s here, he means it in every sense.

And then, because Ford can’t help the way his mind works, he begins talking in that soothing voice of his. “You know,” he starts in a thoughtful tone. “tears are a natural response to emotional stress. It’s. . . it’s a sign of strength, not weakness. Your body is releasing what it can’t hold anymore.”

Ford is not trying to seem all smart and logical, it’s just how he comforts, by giving you the understanding you deserve, by showing you that it’s okay to feel everything you’re feeling, by explaining you. And when you hear him, his hand moves to gently wipe away your tears with the pad of his thumb, so careful, like he’s touching something sacred.

“Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out together,” Ford promises you. “You’re not alone in this.” he kisses your forehead, slowly, letting you feel his presence. And when you’re breathing just a little steadier, Ford tilts your chin up, his eyes searching yours, and there’s nothing but warmth in his gaze. “You’re going to be alright.” he says, and somehow, you know he means it.

[saltofmercury]

Sentimental

Pairing: Jason Todd x f!reader

Author's note: Writing feels so good!!! I'm so happy to be writing again :)

Summary: Jason holds onto things that make him emotional. That doesn’t make him emotional.

*

Jason Todd would never call himself emotional.

He prefers the term sentimental. Sentimental is what surrounds the items in his trinket box. There’s not many items inside —some personal information mostly. A death certificate, a watch, and more recently items from you. A scrunchie, a broken keychain, and notes.

He had noticed the bracelets, gold and silver trinkets decorating your arm, then something not as shiny, the weird black ribbon scrunchie. The scrunchie you never gave it to him.

He watched as you pushed your hair back, your hands guiding the elastic weaving through your hair, sitting on top of your head.

What was left was the red indent on your wrist. You seemed to pay no attention to it, but he did not like the idea of something leaving a mark on you. Red and indented. The angry mark kept being shown, often closed off by your other bracelets.

“Does this hurt?” He asked you later at night wondering how it hadn’t gone down since the afternoon. 

“No, I get these all the time.” You say, carefully gauging his reaction.

“But I don’t like the impression it leaves you with.” He scowled, rubbing his thumb along the indent. 

Impressed by the mark it did leave—He took the scrunchie the next day, wearing it for a total of five hours. He had come back to the apartment you two shared, showing you the indent of his own. Now he keeps your scrunchie on his arm, willing to hold it for you. You never really take it back though, you just let him hold onto it. Seeing how he fidgets and snaps it on his own. He doesn’t give it back either.

Sentimental over the keychain you bought him for the key to your apartment. A big step in your relationship, where he had been earning your trust, giving you space, waiting for you to take the next step — you just wanted some peace of mind from him entering through the balcony window.

It had been a small joke between you guys about how you wish you had a pocket sized “him” so you could tell him at any moment anything that happened during your work day.

It prompted the idea to make him into a Lego.

You carefully selected the top, bottom, and head, and even added a red cap on top as an inside joke for his mask.

Jason could hardly respond. It leaves him tongue tied at the little figurine placed in his hand. Your smile beaming at him, then, expressionless when he doesn’t say anything. 

“You don’t like it?” You pout, hoping you didn’t cause offense.

He stares back at you intensely, suddenly breathless.

“I love it.”

He does wish he were more careful with it. After falling from a two story building, he had landed on it causing the little figurine to crack into multiple pieces. He would have taken a dislocated shoulder over the broken keychain.

“You fell on it?” you ask, seeing it cracked in multiple pieces in your hands.

“The guy snuck up on me and kicked me off the ledge.”

“And you fell … on it? Didn’t that hurt?” You peer up from your hands concerned he’s not fused with any other Lego pieces on his leg.

He tries to glue it back together, seeing the irony in himself in the Lego pieces. It frustrates him, he places it in a bag and puts it away in the box. He just starts to keep the key around his neck. The next day he gets surprised by the different figurine.

“Don’t land on this one ok?” You smile up at him.

Sentimental over every note you’ve ever written him— which causes his small box to overflow with colors of

“I’ll be back with dinner”

“went to the market” 

“Ice cream in the freezer!”

And all the “I love you’s see you later”

Scribbled in your writing on blue, white, pink, and yellow scraps of paper, post-its, and notepads. 

What seemed like a small note was a reminder to him that someone does come back for him. 

Someone is there for him.

So no, Jason Todd isn’t emotional. He’s just sentimental.

[russo-woso]

Like mother, like daughter || Leah Williamson x reader

Request | Masterlist | Prompt List

Part of the Mini Williamson universe

Summary Leah takes Amelia to training so you can have a well needed break.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

You were approaching the final weeks of your pregnancy.

Your body was aching. You were tired all the time. You were in a constant bad mood. You were over being pregnant.

At this point, you just wanted to meet your baby girl more than anything.

Amelia, although she was a relatively good child, was going through her terrible twos stage.

Throwing temper tantrums, sulking when you say no, everything a child going through the terrible twos would do.

To make matters worse, Leah was at training every single day apart from one day a week, meaning that she wasn't there to help.

Leah felt so bad. She was leaving her very pregnant wife to look after a two year old, but Leah couldn't do anything.

But one day, she'd gotten home from training to find you sobbing.

"Oh, baby, what's wrong?" Leah asked as she walked into the living room, her arms wrapping round your shaking body.

"I don't know what to do, Le. She's just not listening to me, and I'm so done being pregnant. My whole body hurts. And little miss won't stop kicking because she's your daughter and I just.." You sobbed, Leah rubbing her hand up and down your arm.

“Love, you should have rang me. I would have come home.” Leah told you and you nodded

“You were training though.”

“I know I was training, but you always come first. You and Ami always come first, you need to understand that. Call me next time, okay?” Leah questioned and you nodded against her chest. “Now, where’s Ami?”

After that incident, the very next morning, Leah rang Jonas, asking if she could take Amelia to training.

Jonas happily said yes, knowing Amelia was very loved by the whole team.

Before you could wake up, Leah had gotten herself and Ami all ready, having some spare time left over so she made you some breakfast.

“Mama, mama, wake up.” Amelia whispered, trying to fight the big maternity pillow so she could get over it to hug you.

“Hi, baby girl.” You greeted her, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

“made you breakfast.” She told you, and your heart melted.

“Did you? Aw, thank you.” You sat up, slowly due to your bump, resting your back against the headboard. “Thank you, love.” You whispered in Leah’s ear as she kissed you.

Leah then bent down to kiss your bump.

“Look after mama for me.” Leah whispered against it, before pressing another kiss.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got Ami and little miss to keep me safe.” You joked, laughing softly.

“It’s just little miss today. Ami’s coming with me. You get a break okay, get some sleep, just a full day of rest.” Leah explained, and at that point you felt like crying.

“Really? Thank you, Le.” You hugged her tightly. Leah suddenly realised just how much you’d been struggling with Amelia.

You loved Ami so so much, but she was such a handful, especially when you were at one of your weakest points in your pregnancy.

“Right, we best get going, Mini Williamson.” Leah told Amelia, who was dressed in an Arsenal kit.

“Okay, mummy. Goodbye mama, bye bye sissy. Love you.” Ami babbled, kissing your bump before running downstairs.

You and Leah’s shared a sentimental laugh before Leah pecked your lips, saying goodbye.

“You get some sleep.”

—

“Mini Williamson!” Katie shouted, holding her arms out as Ami ran towards her. “How you doing, mini Williamson?”

“Good!” Ami cheered, throwing her arms in the air.

“Being a cheeky monkey to mama, aren’t you?” Leah told Katie, Katie tickling Amelia’s sides in response.

“Why are you being a cheeky monkey to your mama? Your mama is doing a really big job by carrying your sister so you’ve got to be nice to her.” Katie explained to Ami, and she nodded along to Katie’s words.

“Is that a certain Amelia I see there?” A voice asked from across the room.

“Auntie Lessi!” Amelia laughed, running to Alessia who picked her up.

“Have you been naughty for mama? Is that why mummy brought you here?” Alessia questioned as Amelia’s lowly nodded, hiding her face in Alessia’s neck.

“You have to be good for mama, munchkin.” Alessia said, pressing a kiss to Ami cheek before putting her down.

Alessia walked over to Leah, hugging her as Leah sighed.

“She just… it’s hard, she doesn’t understand that Y/N’s pregnant. She gets she’s going to be an older sister, but she doesn’t get the fact that Y/N’s already tired and achy, and her messing around doesn’t make it easier.” Leah explained to Alessia, who nodded along, as they both watched Ami talking to Beth and Steph about her new boots.

“I’m always here to take her.” Alessia offered. “She’s like a niece to me. She’s my mini best friend, aren’t you?” Alessia asked Ami as she walked back over to Leah and Alessia.

“Yes, auntie lessi! Best friend.” Amelia said, hugging Alessia’s leg.

“Thanks, less.”

“Anyway, how is Y/N? How’s little miss doing?”

They fell into light conversation as they got ready for training, Kyra and Ami already running round causing chaos.

It was safe to say that Ami would definitely be having an afternoon nap.

—

Waking up cuddled into your maternity pillow, you rubbed your eyes to steady them.

You reached to pick your phone up, looking at the time, 13:21 looking back at you.

Just as you were about to rest your head on the pillow, Leah’s head popped through the door.

“Hi, love. You slept for a while.” Leah laughed lightly as she came to lay down next to you, her arm wrapping round your bump.

You hummed in agreement as Leah pressed a kiss to your head.

“Where’s Ami?” You asked, noticing the silence in the house.

“Having a nap. Training tired her out.” Leah explained as you nodded against her chest.

“Did she have fun?” You mumbled, half asleep.

“Lots. Her, lessi and Kyra were crazy. Running round everywhere.” Leah said but when she didn’t get a response, she looked down to see you asleep.

She smiled to herself, seeing your face so light and gentle as you slept.

She leant down to your bump, gently caressing it before pressing a kiss on it.

“You need to stop making your mama so tired.” Leah whispered, earning a kick from little miss. “My little football player.”